Avalanche
by And The Moment's Gone
Summary: Well, I stepped into an avalanche, it covered up my soul. (England is coming, Nassau has prepared, and Eleanor Guthrie finds herself planted firmly in the middle of the two).
1. Prologue

Title: Avalanche  
Category: Television Shows» Black Sails  
Author: And The Moment's Gone  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T+  
Words: 195  
Warnings/Spoilers: You MUST have seen Season 1 AND Season 2

Official Disclaimer: All Black Sails characters and plots belong to Starz, and Michael Bay, I do not hold stock either the company or the man. Charles Vane, Eleanor Guthrie, and any other character featured are NOT mine. The title comes from the Of Mice and Men song Silhouettes and I don't own that either.

* * *

Quick Author's Note: I wanted to give a wholehearted shout out to RebelGeneral (realmofvane on Tumblr). Withouther I don't think that this piece would have ever been written. Thank you for your support.

* * *

Eleanor Guthrie had never been seasick in her entire life.

It was a fact that she insisted on exploiting whenever it suited her, beginning at sixteen when she marched herself aboard the Speaker after the take that they reported in no way resembled the take in which Mister Scott's lead had promised. With what seemed like the entirety of the docks in attendance – including that of the newly appointed Captain Vane and the Ranger's crew – Eleanor Guthrie stood toe to toe with Captain Bowen and informed him that in absence of her father, Nassau was her fucking island, and anyone not willing to do their part in seeing it prosperous could take their fucking ship and never return.

Which was why four weeks after being traded to Captain Hume for the thanks of the Royal Navy and a pardon good King George, with another week and a half at least left until she reached London, when her stomach flipped and not even her iron will could keep her from heaving the contents of what meager food she allowed herself from spilling over the side of the Scarborough, Eleanor realized that something was very very wrong.


	2. Chapter 1: London Calling

Title: Avalanche  
Category: Television Shows» Black Sails  
Author: And The Moment's Gone  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T+  
Words: 3,559  
Warnings/Spoilers: You MUST have seen Season 1 AND Season 2

Official Disclaimer: All Black Sails characters and plots belong to Starz, and Michael Bay, I do not hold stock either the company or the man. Charles Vane, Eleanor Guthrie, and any other character featured are NOT mine. The title comes from the Of Mice and Men song Silhouettes and I don't own that either.

* * *

They didn't parade Eleanor through the streets of London. At least, not in the way that she had originally expected.

The _Scarborough_ made port in the middle of the night. Eleanor honestly had no idea of the date. She'd been off the island for five weeks and three days, that much she was aware. Either way, a grand parade of a prisoner wasn't very effective this late at night, no matter if London was awaiting her or not. It also might have helped that she'd lost even more weight in the last two weeks, and her newly acquired dresses no longer flattered.

The Pirate Queen of Nassau would not exalt awe and terror with her gown hanging off of her, her hair limp and skin sickly.

The rabble would have laughed Hume back to Nassau, his supporters with him.

Instead, she was awakened just as they made berth, the meager items that she had been allowed to keep packed in a satchel, and Hume's boatswain helped her down the gangplank to dry land. A carriage had been procured, and Eleanor was handed up into it cautiously, Hume climbing in after to handle the exchange.

"I sent word as we were restocking the ship," he informed her carefully. Eleanor wondered if he thought she really needed that information, or if suddenly the Captain was uncomfortable with the silence.

Condemning a woman barely seeing three and twenty to death was probably easier in the abstract.

She hummed carefully, not even bothering to look out the window on the streets as they passed by. She'd been to Tortuga once – against Scott's better judgment – and her father had sent her to Port Royal more than once since he'd returned to the island. Eleanor was well aware that there were more sophisticated places than her home. There was absolutely no reason for her to hang her head out the window like a schoolgirl.

"And I took the liberty of allowing Mister Babish to parcel a few of the books that you seemed to enjoy to accompany you." The look on his face showed that Hume was proud of himself for considering her comfort in the Tower, for however long it was that she would be there.

Eleanor could only blink.

Her inattentiveness didn't seem to bother Hume, who decided to fill in the silence with a discussion on the members of Parliament that he believed would be interested in questioning her, and the information that they would hope to garner before putting her to death. Apparently, he was of the position that the more she knew – and shared – the longer they would let her live.

If they were going to kill her anyway, Eleanor supposed that she would just as soon have it happen now, thank you very much.

The carriage turned sharply, and Eleanor had to swallow down bile. If she'd ever be in the position to relay this adventure to anyone else, she would have to make sure that she commented that she much preferred her illness when the Scarborough's ship doctor had proclaimed it a belated bought of seasickness. Yes, it was ridiculous as the first time one of the sailors had suggested it, but at the time, they really had no other indication as to the cause.

It seemed her seasickness didn't end at the sea.

As if he had noticed her condition, she was vaguely aware of Hume promising that another physician would be secured, and she would receive a thorough diagnosis. The part of her brain that seemed to still function was quick to tell her that it was for the benefit of the lords that would be interviewing her, not necessarily herself. But she would be assessed nonetheless, so it was something.

Her body seemed to shut down after that.

It wasn't until she had been led through the maze that was the Tower of London, and into her new apartments, that she seemed to become aware again. The comptroller of the Tower, a tiny little man whose name Eleanor didn't catch, had announced that a Mister Rogers – son-by-law of Rear Admiral Sir William Whetstone – had dictated that she receive whatever she required to make her person more comfortable. By that extension, he made sure to tell her that there would be books made available, as well as a chaplain, should she feel the need to commune with God. And if she discovered that she needed any ladies sundries, she needed only to ask.

Ladies sundries? Why would she need those?

She hadn't had her courses since-

The door was shutting behind the men, bar locking to place as her entire body went rigid.

How could she have been that _stupid?_

Eleanor didn't even realize when her body had sunk to the floor.

She should have known. Of course she should have known.

There was only one reason why her seasickness wouldn't end at the sea.

* * *

It took three days for a physician to be provided to her.

Three days of driving herself absolutely mad recalling every exchange that she had had with Charles Vane since the whole saga of the Spanish Galleon began. To be honest, she didn't have to go back that far for this mistake. No, in the week that spanned from the murder of Ned Lowe to the death of her father, she'd made this particular error multiple times.

Even in the darkness of her cell, Eleanor could hear Jack Rackham's laughter.

Fate was a fickle bitch.

It seemed she'd won her stay of execution, after all.

She didn't need the aging physician to poke and prod her in his effort to examine her. If it was possible, his strikingly regal assistant was probably quicker to realize what the source of her illness was. The older woman eyed Eleanor cautiously as the doctor massaged her abdomen with shaking hands.

"Mister Rogers won't like this." The man totted, putting his implements back into his satchel. "Not at all." As if she knew something that the rest of the room did not, the older woman just smiled. "You'll have to amend your diet," he went on as if that was something that Eleanor could truly control.

Did he not notice His Majesty's finest on his way in? Or that he had needed the comptroller to unlock the cell?

"More meat," He scribbled something on a scrap piece of parchment in black lead. "And I wouldn't recommend another crossing." His eyes darted up carefully as if she wasn't supposed to hear that.

Eleanor just nodded, hands drifting to her abdomen. Six and a half weeks ago her life apparently decided to change itself, and she wasn't sure how she didn't notice it until now.

A child.

She didn't notice when they quit the room.

Or when Mister Smeaton brought her supper hours later.

She came back to herself slowly as she broke her fast by rote when the echoing of keys announced yet another visitor to her part of the Tower.

"The boy brought her meal," Mister Smeaton was babbling in the tempered way that Eleanor had come to find endearing. The older man was proud of his position and compassionate to the inmates that deserved it. More than once in the last three days, he had brought her an extra blanket – because his wife had noted that the cold lingered – and a book or two, his son just finished that one, and seemed to like it. "And Wintersby said that she wasn't contagious."

"I'm fully aware of her circumstance." The voice on the other side of the door was temperamental but calm. Eleanor closed her eyes so she could feel the control that the man must have been exerting.

"Good morning, Miss." Smeaton popped the bolt and smiled at Eleanor over the rims of his spectacles. "Beautiful day ahead."

She wouldn't know, her window barely big enough to allow light into the room.

Her comment died in her throat, though, as she caught sight of the man the comptroller had been leading through the Tower. As Richard Guthrie's only child, Eleanor had been allowed an extensive education. She had also been afforded the knowledge of what wealth and power looked like in the civilized world.

This man exuded both.

"Leave us," he didn't bother to look to see if his order was being followed, merely inspected his nails as the door jumped closed behind him. "Mistress Guthrie, I presume?"

"Are you in the habit of imprisoning women so often that you can't keep them straight?" Her voice was low, more out of misuse than anything else, but Eleanor found that she could, at least, be proud of the strength. She'd been taken from her home, held captive on a ship taking her halfway across the world, and deposited in this cell. There really was no reason for her to feign politeness.

Apparently her discourtesy wasn't taken in the same spirit it was given. He inspected the books on her table before dropping onto the lone chair. "Not as of late," he answered slowly, his smile tight but free. "I am Woodes Rogers," he allowed her a moment to take that in, seeming to understand that she wasn't as conscious as she liked to pretend to be. "And I will be the next governor of New Providence Island."

Her entire body seemed to come alive at once, and she dropped herself onto her bed with a snort. In her lifetime, the island had had no less than six governors. None lasted for more than three years, and with the exception of two, none escaped the post alive. "Are you now?" the words slid from her mouth before she could stop them, her back sitting a little straighter. He nodded. "Does Nassau know this?"

It was an obvious 'no,' and they both knew it. But the fact that he knew that she knew exactly what he was walking into – and the opposition that he would face – was enough for him to nod in understanding. "She will," he offered instead.

"You'll have to let me know how that goes for you." The man may command guns and ships and His Majesty's men, but he would be no different than the last few men that King George sent to try to tame the island. She just wished that she could be there to watch Flint and Charles show him the courtesy of the island.

"I won't have to." He was watching her carefully now, eyes guarded. Her chin tilted toward him. "I have a proposition for you."

He was going to ask her about Nassau. It was inevitable. Hume knew who she was, and even if Hornigold hadn't presented her as the Pirate Queen of Nassau, she was a Guthrie. Her father's business wasn't a silent one. She knew of at least three merchants in London alone that repurposed her father's pirated goods over the years.

But the first rule of business that she had learned at the knee of Mister Scott at the tender age of ten was to never allow a man to measure your mettle until you'd had the opportunity to measure his.

"I'm not sure if they made you aware," she started sternly. "But I wasn't pulled out of a brothel."

"You're unmarried, Mistress Guthrie," Rogers didn't even bat an eye. "You are hundreds of miles from your home, and my physician informed me last evening that you are with child." Eleanor took a moment to marvel at the fact that he was so very calm and so very still. "If _that_ was the proposal that I intended, you are not in any position to turn me down."

It was a good thing that Eleanor was used to confident, self-important men.

She leaned further against her wall, arms coming up to cross under her breasts. "Okay then," her head cocked to the side as she spoke. If he was going to try offering her salvation, she would at least listen. "What is it you intend?"

"I have the capital and means of launching a movement on the island." It was a very polite way of saying that the crown had given him the funds and ships needed to invade New Providence. The language didn't fool Eleanor, he could dress it up as he liked. She also knew what had happened last time someone had decided to 'launch a movement' on the island. They hadn't been able to properly bury her mother until the flames had died down.

She had to remind herself that this attack wasn't going to be targeting Harbour Island, or the interior.

The only people that Rogers would need to bring to heel would be the beach.

"It sounds to me like you have no need for a woman in a cell," she added before she could stop herself. "Go with God, and remember that some ships don't fly the black until it's found its prey." Eleanor crossed herself mockingly out of habit.

"Which is where you come in." Rogers was leaning back now, his eyes never leaving her.

Her brow furrowed. "To identify which ships fly the black?" She shook her head. "If you're launching an attack on the bay, you shouldn't need to identify them. If they're anchored, there's a good chance they're pirates."

"I need someone who can make the distinction." Rogers leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his knees. "Not all pirate lords will be interested in the fight. A few" like Hornigold, Eleanor supposed, "Might be willing to take a pardon if it's offered in exchange for their cooperation."

Naft, Lawerence, Lilywhite; the names flooded Eleanor's mind just as soon as he'd mentioned the pardon, and she pulled herself from her seat to pace off her sudden burst of energy. Her consortium was founded on the notion that they could legitimize Nassau. The men that had joined her wouldn't hesitate to find it through another avenue.

It was a shame that they couldn't see that England didn't mean freedom.

Their cage might be gilded, but it was still a cage.

"And what are you planning on offering me," she spared him a look from the corner of her eyes, arms dropping to cover the bundle that she now knew she carried. "What does my information buy?"

His smile just screamed victory, and Eleanor allowed herself a moment to wonder if it even crossed his mind that she would only give him what she needed to stay alive. "Firstly, you would be allowed to leave here," he used one hand to indicate the room she'd been held in for that last five days. "A room has already been prepared at my family's townhouse. You will be treated as an honored guest while my men and I prepare the fleet."

 _It will likely start with three ships, maybe four._

Eleanor could hear Flint's voice in her head as clearly now as when he had said it six weeks ago in her tavern.

 _A tactical assault to retake the bay._

It was suddenly very cold.

"You'll be outfitted with a new wardrobe, befitting your station as an informant to the crown," he nodded to her current garment, ill-fitting and ragged. "A lady's maid will be provided, as well as my own personal physician." These were comforts that she would never have had on her own, incarcerated or not. "And when the crown gives me leave to sail, you will – of course – sail along with us."

Back to Nassau.

She could go home.

The reprieve must have shown on her face, because Rogers shifted, pulling one leg up and leaning backward. "This is entirely conditional." He pointed out casually. "The second you lie to me or give my men information that proves misleading, you're dead." Both of her hands dropped to her belly. "Child or no child."

She should have expected that.

"If you lie, you die."

Eleanor took a deep breath. She lived with that kind of uncertainty every day on Nassau. More so after her father had disbanded the fencing operation than before. Would it be possible to live like that again until she could figure a way out of this whole mess? Until she could find a way to find her own legitimacy and come out of this on top?

Was she even questioning it?

She was Eleanor Guthrie; the only daughter of Richard and Rebecca Stewart Guthrie. She'd survived for the last twenty years on her strength and wits alone. She'd held her tongue, and watched, and found a way to keep her interests.

And she knew something that Rogers obviously did not.

She knew about the man-of-war.

Whether it was Flint at the helm or Charles, that was a ship that would not bow easily to an English fleet. If they could repair the fort, and stock the bay, they might actually be able to withstand this.

Which lead her to the men themselves.

There was no way to tell who had made it out of Charles Town. She might hope to have news, that Rogers would allow her to gather her own intel to aid in her recommendations for him. But in order to control her situation, she would have to prepare for the worst and work from there.

Eleanor didn't want to ask herself why the worst-case scenario in her mind involved Charles killing Flint for the man-of-war. Why strategy was so much harder to gauge if he were the one that she would have to predict.

She was apparently quiet for too long, mulling her choices over in her head. "I estimate that we will be sailing in a fortnight," Rogers informed her as he stood, brushing off his breeches. "I'll need your answer within the week if we're to prepare you for the journey."

"I have one condition." Her voice was stronger than the rest of her, and Eleanor forced her back ramrod straight as she turned to face Rogers as he headed for the door.

The man paused, slowly turning to face her. She'd caught him off guard. The incredulous smile on his lips told her that. "You are currently standing in the middle of a cell in the Tower of London, where there are a great many people fully prepared to see you swinging in place of your two terrible counterparts, and the only thing stopping me from doing it as soon as tomorrow is the child in your belly." Rogers ticked off information on his fingers, not being too careful as how many fingers came up when. He left off the part where the only people who know of her condition were the two of them, the doctor who had examined her upon her arrival, and his assistant. As long as he could keep her from speaking at her execution, no one would be the wiser. "And not only have I given you a way to keep your life and your child, but when you agree, you'll be moved from this lovely room into my townhouse, where you'll receive a proper physician's care, be outfitted with a brand new wardrobe, and be back on your way to your home in less than two weeks time." He paused, eyebrow cocked, "and _you're_ giving me conditions?"

"Just one," Eleanor used her next breath to step closer to the captain. The second he mentioned giving her the chance to return to her home, she'd had to think fast. There were two lives counting on her remaining alive long enough to see the shores she'd been taken away from, Flint and Charles would have to be warned of the dangers that Rogers presented. There was also the small matter of the fact that she would, at some point, have to tell Charles about her condition.

Amazingly enough, it was the last item that worried her the most.

But none of those things mattered if Rogers suspected any of the plans formulating in her head.

So she crossed her arms under her chest, squared her shoulders, and raised her brows. "I want to see Charles Vane's head on a pike." It was poetic; she had to give herself that. The visual of the present Charles made of Ned Lowe's death still so vividly in her mind. It was right next to the image of her father lying in front of his own macabre crucifix. Charles had had warned her, what felt like a lifetime ago, that he would be no slave again, and that as long as he was free, so would Nassau.

Eleanor only hoped that if the news of this bargain made it to Nassau before she did, he would understand that by making him a target, by focusing Woodes Rogers's energy in his direction, she most surely just placed all of her faith in him to be able to defeat the English.

Then again, it was entirely possible that she had just signed herself up for a fresh round of fire from her former lover.

But she couldn't think about that now.

Now she had to convince Rogers that she would help him as long as he helped her put one of the most notorious pirates to the sword. She had to convince him of the war she needed him to declare.

And for a finishing touch, she allowed a grim smile. "As long as he is alive, you cannot succeed."


	3. Chapter 3: Old Faces in New Places

Title: Avalanche  
Category: Television Shows» Black Sails  
Author: And The Moment's Gone  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T+  
Words: 1,936  
Warnings/Spoilers: You MUST have seen Season 1 AND Season 2

Official Disclaimer: All Black Sails characters and plots belong to Starz, and Michael Bay, I do not hold stock either the company or the man. Charles Vane, Eleanor Guthrie, and any other character featured are NOT mine. The title comes from the Bear McCreary version of the song Avalanche and I don't own that either.

* * *

If Eleanor was surprised by nothing else during her week and a half outside the Tower, she could rest easy knowing that her release from captivity required nothing more than for her to follow Woodes Rogers out the door of her cell and down the hall to freedom.

It simply was that easy.

She'd been handed into a carriage with the promise that the items of worth still in her cell would be brought to her, and the second she entered the townhouse that was the London residence of Woodes Rogers and his family, she was rushed into a waiting bath, and her clothing taken – the maid announcing there was no salvaging them. They would have to be burned. Then she'd been bathed, lathered and lotioned almost to exhaustion. After that was a simple dinner of beef and vegetable stew with a heel of sweet bread, and they almost had to carry her from her sitting room to the bed.

The next few went by in a flurry of appointments and fabric. She was shuffled from seamstress to seamstress – three in all in order to complete the wardrobe Rogers said she required before their departure – and to at least two different cobblers. She ate lunch in public houses with Rogers and his associates, and took strolls in the park with his wife and their children. With the former, she was questioned about almost everything; what did she know about Nassau politics, did how much on the King's law was still abided by, what did she think of certain shipping lanes? The latter she wasn't expected to say anything, Rogers's wife Sarah would discuss the local politics, the dinner menu, even the children's maladies while they were out just to ensure that Eleanor got the doctor's recommended amount of fresh air every day. Eleanor reckoned that Sarah had been ordered to take her with them, whether she wanted to or not.

Her lady's maid turned out to be the stern-faced physicians assistant from Eleanor's time in the Tower. The brilliant and candid Mrs. Oswald was a widow, although Eleanor couldn't find anyone to tell her how her husband passed, who had apparently been in the employ of Rogers's wife for many years. No one told her what it was that she did around the household either. What they did offer was the fact that she aided in selecting styles and fabrics that would not only be easily converted as she got closer to her due, but would work in the intemperate climate of the West Indies.

The only recompense that she could find was the fact that Rogers hid her condition from absolutely no one now, and Eleanor had been given leave to rest whenever she felt it was necessary.

She regretted to inform anyone that there were actually times when she just plain didn't feel like dealing with anyone anymore and feigned being tired just to get away.

The nights were the worst.

Eleanor's mind trapped her between the reality of her current position and the 'what might have been' of the past.

Twice the week after she had been released Eleanor could have sworn that she woke to the sound of Charles and Captain Flint arguing in the sitting room of her suite, and she could feel Mister Scott humming behind her when she was left alone in Rogers's study in the evenings. And it didn't even come close to the myriad of voices in her head that established a running commentary at every dinner party she was required to attend.

Such as the one she was descending to now, the night before the fleet departed to the West Indies.

Her newly acquired trunks were packed, and she had been fully prepared to spend the night with a good book before traveling to the docks for the grand bon voyage. Then Mrs. Oswald had entered the room with another gown draped across her arm, promising a 'quick brush' before she had to be down in the parlor.

How the 'quick brush' turned into a myriad of braids on her head, she would never be able to figure out.

"Mistress Guthrie," Rogers noticed her the second she entered the room, his hand coming up to silence the men he was talking to so he could fully turn to her. It didn't escape Eleanor's notice that Sarah was conspicuously absent from the gathering. "Thank you for joining us."

She dropped her head in mock of a curtsey and did her best to smile. "Of course," a voice she didn't have to give a name to in the back of her mind reminded her that ladies do not slouch. Or smile. "The pleasure is mine."

It wasn't.

She was stuffy and uncomfortable, and she had a five-week journey ahead of her in the morning, and they all knew it.

But Rogers seemed pleased that she at least pretended.

"There have been a few additions to the ships since we last spoke." With his hand on her elbow, Rogers disregarded the men he was previously conversing with in favor of turning her to the other side of the room. "I understand this was not what you had in mind for the evening, but I wanted to make sure you were acquainted with them ere we set sail in the morning." There was a moment when Eleanor allowed herself to throw her eyes around the room, taking stock of the men – and their female companions – that she had already been introduced to. "With you and Mrs. Oswald being the only ladies on this voyage, I thought it might help you to not feel that you were confined to your cabin."

Eleanor didn't want to point out that she wouldn't have felt confined even if he had specifically told her that she should not be on deck. Instead, she caught the eyes of one of Rogers's acquaintances and nodded. "No one has any objection to bringing a woman on this voyage?"

"A woman?" Rogers smiled down at her. "Perhaps." He caught her eye, and something softened. "But you're far from just any woman, are you?"

Her shoulders straightened then, Mister Scott's voice reminding her that flattery was like a painted weapon. It was nice, but not completely useful. It didn't matter if what he said could possibly be true. She was the Pirate Queen of Nassau. She was not just any woman.

It didn't occur to her that she had missed the first few introductions, her body going through the motions when Rogers removed his hand from her arm, and she seemed to nod and shake hands by rote. Then Rogers placed his hand on her back, to get her to step forward, perhaps, and her world came into focus again.

"And lastly," how many of these had she missed? Eleanor wondered if Mrs. Oswald knew the men. It would certainly help. "Our merchant liaison, Mister Kit Hammond."

Eleanor's mind groped for how she knew that name, even before making eye contact with the man in front of her. He was leaner than last they saw each other. Older too, but that was hardly surprising. He bowed carefully instead of taking her hand as if he was being introduced to her at a formal garden party, not a dinner. "Miss Guthrie," His smile was still so forthcoming. "This is certainly a surprise."

The back of her mind growled, and she brushed thoughts of lovers aside to smile back at the man. "Mister Hammond." Christopher, her mind supplied. This was Christopher Hammond, and she did her fair share of avoiding the man many years ago. "I did not realize that your father still held an interest in the West Indies."

"Not as it sits, I'm afraid." Rogers grip on her waist seemed to tighten, but Eleanor brushed that aside as well. "Nassau is still a bit too wild for my father's tastes." They shared a smile. "But I've been working to bring him around to its advantages."

It deserved to be noted that Woodes Rogers did not handle the lack of information well. His voice was tight as he turned his body to hers. "I was not aware that you two knew each other."

"Vaguely, I'm afraid." Eleanor turned her body to her host, trying to convey that was she aware that Christopher Hammond had been a prospective sailor on their voyage; she might have pointed the connection out sooner.

"More than a few years ago, her father had been looking to expand his legitimate interests," Christopher's eyes searched her face for a moment. She wasn't sure what he found when he smiled again. "He had given thought to partner with my father."

His touch lightened, and Rogers smiled. "A partnership that didn't go through, I take it?"

There was a nod. "My father lost interest when Mister Guthrie failed to deliver on his end of the deal."

To this day, Eleanor could remember the argument that ensued with her father after Hammond was called back home to London. She wasn't sure what seemed to incite him more, the fact that she was unapologetic, or that she'd insisted on besting him in the argument in her office in the tavern, with both Charles and Captain Flint on the other side of the door.

Neither of which was entirely by design, now that she thought of it. Just a happy coincidence that didn't hurt her reputation in the eyes of the beach.

"Had my father taken the time to understand his daughter," it was an argument that Mister Scott had presented when trying to allow cooler heads to prevail. "The agreement never would have been conditional on her hand."

Hammond's laughter was uncontained. "That is very true." He threw a look to Rogers, the other man looking more and more uncomfortable at being left out of the conversation by the second. "The spirited woman who greeted us was in no way the wide-eyed girl he described on the journey." There was a moment when Hammond seemed to remember himself, and he reached out for her hand. "I heard about his death," he said solemnly. "I am truly sorry for your loss."

Her hands froze, and Eleanor had to force herself not to jerk them back away from him. She wondered how much of her father's death he had heard. Charles's manifesto was read aloud on the beach multiple times before she was abducted. If Eleanor were to make a bet, she would have said that it was repeated more than enough after as well. Had it made it off the island? Did he know that the reason her father was murdered and strung up in the fort because she had won a round in a battle of wills against her former lover?

Eleanor couldn't stop herself from shifting her gaze to Rogers, meeting his own before blinking. "Such is life in Nassau," she conceded after a moment, still not sure what she was supposed to say to all of that. Her hand twitched, itching to cover the belly that she knew no one else could see. "Thank you for your condolences."

And as if the universe understood that Eleanor's mind was incapable of extracting herself from this situation, dinner was served.


End file.
